


you're making me a wreck (but that's not better than--

by succulent (capra)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Established Relationship, Explicit Communication, Explicit Consent, M/M, Rough Sex, and a pair of pants, and also a lot of sex, do not copy to another site, i love them, just full of a lot of feels, look at these boys having a healthy relationship!, otayuri - Freeform, the sex is relatively vanilla tbh, they live in almaty together, they're super gross and romantic, yurabek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:20:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22889101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capra/pseuds/succulent
Summary: Yuri brings home a particularly irreverent pair of pants.Otabek enjoys them.
Relationships: Otabek Altin & Yuri Plisetsky, Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 12
Kudos: 85
Collections: Otayuri Week 2020





	you're making me a wreck (but that's not better than--

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sprosslee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sprosslee/gifts).



> For [@sprosslee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sprosslee), on the occasion of the Secret Satan. I'm two months late but at least I made it in before Yuri's birthday! Sorry this is so late, dear, but once I finally got the boys to start talking to me, they wouldn't _shut up._ XD
> 
> Graciously beta'd by the ienffable [@scribblingsquirrel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblingsquirrel).
> 
> title from "better than sex" by the midnight beast.

*

Otabek watches Yuri moving around their apartment with a little bemused smile on his lips.

Yuri’s just come home from a long day out. Following his usual schedule - rink time, barre work, lunch, and then his second ice session - Yuri had gone out shopping, itching to turn some of his recent cash winnings into new wardrobe pieces. And he must have found something good, because he is clearly in a fantastic mood. While 'fantastic' might seem like an overstatement, given that Yuri's hardly bouncing off the walls, Otabek knows Yuri well. Maybe it's more accurate to say that Yuri seems _self-satisfied_ ; from his armchair in the living room, Otabek glances over at Yuri, then back down to his tablet. Yuri's very pleased with himself about something, but Otabek can't guess what.

He turns back to his screen, smile still comfortably in place. He won't ask; eventually Yuri will volunteer the information.

While Otabek scans the program layout on his tablet screen, looking for more ways to increase the ice coverage of the pattern he's planned out so far, Yuri's putting down his shopping and getting out of his outwear - a moderately lengthy process, given the several layers of warmth needed to get through Almaty winters. First he's put down his bags of shopping, taking out his earphones and turning off his ipod. Next Yuri takes off his thick winter boots, leaving them in the boot tray to let the slush melt off, and slips into his fuzzy cat-eared house slippers.

Yuri hangs the keys on the door and scritches under Potya's chin as she turns circles on the counter, asking for attention, food, or both. Otabek glances up again a minute or two later, because Yuri's still puttering around: he's taken off his scarf, hat and gloves, now hanging neatly on their wall hooks, and is raking his fingers through his hair, combing it into relative order.

But he's still wearing his long winter coat.

Otabek frowns, head tilting to one side. "You feeling alright?"

Yuri hums, glancing over his shoulder at Otabek, and swings his bag up onto the counter with a little smile. "Just fine." He pulls the zipper, unloading his lunchbox, his water bottle, his skates and his skate towel. The towel and soakers get hung up; the skates get stripped of their guards and turned upside down, propped blade-up in their designated spot for air-drying. The lunchbox gets disassembled and placed in the sink, and so does the water bottle.

"You're not feeling chilled?" Otabek asks, watching him with a bit of concern. He hasn't even unzipped his coat.

"No, you mother hen," Yuri says, head and shoulders in the fridge. He emerges with a small bottle of juice, bounces the fridge door closed with his hip, and downs the juice. There's a sharp amusement in his eyes, the source of which Otabek can't identify. "I didn't get sick in the span of ten hours."

"I don't put anything past you," Otabek says mildly, busying himself with his tablet.

Yuri leaves the rest of his duffel's contents, which presumably includes his workout clothes, in the bag, and moves now finally from the open-plan entryway/kitchen/hall area into the apartment's living room. His gaze sparks with a sharp amusement, gentler than the face he shows the world at large, and Otabek, rather than be frustrated that Yuri's trying so clearly to be obscure, just smiles and stretches up to give the sweet welcome-home kiss that Yuri bends down to receive.

"If I'm not chilled and not sick, then what is my coat still doing on," Yuri says, narrating Otabek's confusion.

"I can't help but think you're about to give me a striptease," Otabek comments dryly, brow arched, and Yuri snorts, standing up. He rakes his hair back from his face with a fangy grin.

"As if. I was just about to take it off." He turns around, unzipping the coat, and shucks it off his shoulders with a shrug. Holding the coat by its collar at his side, Yuri walks back to the door to hang it up on its proper hook. Otabek, who'd turned back to his work, glances up again - and freezes.

Yuri's hips sway as he walks. Obviously the effect is emphasized when he's putting effort into it, leaning a bit more sashay into the walk, but he's always had a smooth, graceful stride even off the ice: a rarity for a skater, most of whom are more graceful on the ice and their blades. Yuri holds himself with grace across both. His naturally slender waist means that, proportionately, he carries a significant difference in width from waist to hip, a curve that tempts any hand to touch. Objectively, though, he's built slight and small, and it's only the slender tuck of his waist that makes his narrow hips seem wide at all. Very unlike Otabek, who, though trim, is nowhere as slight, built with less fey flexibility than that which comes to Yuri so naturally. Yuri's walking gait has a pendulous allure to it, especially when he's putting it on. And oh, he's putting it on.

The cool white and neutral shades of their apartment are fading into comfortingly familiar shades of grey as the early-evening winter sunset dims the light through their windows, and the light on beside Otabek's chair, the only one lit in the room, illuminates Yuri in particularly stark relief against those pale shades. His pants, deep black and fitted snug, are made of leather or a good imitation of the same, and they suck in the light like a black hole, reflecting nothing. They define the shape of his body like a silhouette, and down the middle, like a perfectly straight extension of his spine, is a line that tilts and bends with Yuri's movement, briefly gleaming golden in the warm light of the lamp and holding Otabek's complete attention.

There's an exposed zipper in the back of these pants, bright silver steel, with an equally bright oversized ring attached to the pull tab. The sharp line of its teeth draws a straight line down the center of Yuri's ass: from the very edge of his waistband down, and down, and  _ down. _ The zipper goes  _ all  _ the way down, between his thighs, curving forward underneath him until the shadow of his own body blocks the light that makes the metal shine and it disappears from Otabek's sight.

Yuri pauses, one hip cocked, and Otabek just  _ knows _ Yuri knows what that motion does, the way it tilts and curves that silvery line riding the seam of his ass.

Otabek groans, quiet as he can manage to keep it.

Yuri continues to the coat rack. Hangs up his coat, and turns around.

The zipper goes all the way through. All the way up, to the edge of the garment, which rides the smooth plane of Yuri's belly, a dark line drawn between the points of his hipbones.

The shirt he's wearing, a forgettable crop top, barely registers in Otabek's attention.

"Fuck you," Otabek murmurs, emphatic.

Yuri shows his teeth in a wide, confident grin. "Fuck me yourself."

Otabek puts his tablet aside, work forgotten, and crosses the room to Yuri. He just takes it in, touching lightly: arm, shoulder, chin. He flicks Yuri's lower lip with his thumb on his way to curl one hand around the back of Yuri's neck and grip firmly.

"Where did you even  _ find _ these?" he wonders, but Yuri tsks.

"Do you want to get my shopping tips, or do you want to fuck me til I can't stand?"

Otabek's gaze flicks up from Yuri's navel, framed between the waistband of his pants and the skimming hem of his short tee shirt, to catch his eye. "Must it be an either-or?"

Yuri growls quietly, batting Otabek's curious fingers away from his crotch. Otabek reaches right back in, feathering a light touch across the zipper's roughness: a few hundred sharp steel edges woven together across Yuri's cock. The teeth could cut his palm if he gropes Yuri roughly; but if he opens those teeth, takes the invitation offered by that shiny ring hanging at the small of Yuri's back and pulls, the leather will part, and everything inside will be his.

Otabek lowers his lips to Yuri's cheek, mouthing softly at the line of his jaw. Yuri's head tips away, baring his neck, and Otabek follows the path requested, kissing from the corner of Yuri's jaw down to the base of his throat. On his way back up, he tugs at the shell of Yuri's ear with his teeth, just firmly enough that when Yuri hisses, the sound stumbles into a breathless gasp in its end.

"What's the occasion?"

"No reason," Yuri murmurs, mouthing at Otabek's neck and jaw, whatever warm skin happens to be tucked up against his lips, as he puts his concentration into holding his neck out for Otabek to nibble on. "Do I need a reason to bait you into railing me?"

"You never need to bait me into that." Otabek squeezes Yuri's ass, walking his fingers up the curve of it, until they bump into a cool, smooth curve of metal. Otabek hooks his finger through the loop with a little growl of anticipation, but Yuri tugs his hips aside, dancing away. He rests his butt casually on the edge of a little glass-topped side table, letting his knees fall open, feigning indifference as he traces circles on the glass with one fingertip.

Yuri glances up at Otabek with a tone of voice that seems to be aiming for coy and casual. "Not even gonna pretend we're fucking around with foreplay?"

Otabek snorts, prowling forward. "I remember quite a bit of impatience from you the last time I spent too long  _ 'fucking around with' _ that."

Yuri sits up, grin flashing bright and toothy, and slings both his arms around the back of Otabek's neck as Otabek comes to him, stepping right up to the edge of the table. Yuri's thighs spread wide, one to either side of Otabek's, to make room, and his mouth falls just a bit slack, gaze going a bit distant, as the leather stretches, the zipper does not, and the increase of pressure across his cock has arousal crackling electric down his veins. Otabek sees it all.

"Obviously," he says calmly, stroking his hands down the outside flanks of Yuri's thighs, tracing curving paths that follow the contour of each muscle group so visibly outlined beneath the tight, buttery-smooth leather. He skirts around the bulge of Yuri's cock, lips twitching in a smile he's not letting out. "I should make sure to take my time with you tonight."

"What's the math on that?" Yuri asks, a little breathily. He tips close, mouthing at Otabek's collarbone through his shirt. Otabek lifts his hands from Yuri's thighs only long enough to strip his tee off, all business, and when he touches Yuri again, his hands glide up, from leather to skin and then up, under the wide cropped hem of his shirt. Yuri pulls his mouth off Otabek's skin to roll his lip between his teeth and narrow his eyes at Otabek as his thumbs rise up, toward Yuri's nipples. Then they pass by entirely, missing by a wide margin.

"The math is, I love you giving me a hard time," Otabek says.

Yuri leans in to roughly pull Otabek's nipple between his lips, laving it with his tongue and glancing up between licks like he's giving some sort of exasperated tutorial. Otabek laughs hoarsely, knocking his knuckle gently against Yuri's chin to lift it, and leans in to bite that reddened lower lip, then lap it between his own and tug softly.

By the time he's kissed Yuri's lips to a thoroughly wetted slackness, they're both breathing more heavily. "And," he adds, mouthing at Yuri's cheek down to his jawline, dragging a mix of messy half-kisses and words against Yuri's skin. "I love you giving me a hard time."

"Is that a dirty joke?"

"I suppose it could be," Otabek muses, easing Yuri's tee up over his shoulders and off his arms. The last bit to pop free is his head, and his hair puffs like a static dandelion as he pulls it free.

"God, I hate when you do that," Yuri gripes, huffing air upward at the hair shoved into his eyes, but the curl of his mouth and the scrape of his fingernails down Otabek's chest disagrees.

"See?" The expression Otabek's making is a laugh, but a smug little one, and it kindles exactly the spark of aroused irritation in Yuri's eyes that he hoped for.

While he's flattening and fixing his hair with both hands, Yuri sticks his tongue out at Otabek, but not long enough for him to get any ideas about biting it or something.

"I thought the whole idea was, you know, fuck me through the wall," he grumbles, and there's a genuine pout sneaking into his voice, a genuine frustration in his gaze as he tries to gauge Otabek's thoughts. "Generally that's what you want when you put on fuck-me pants, you want someone to fuck you."

"And I will," Otabek reassures him, fully earnest. If Yuri's voice, curved hungrily around the words 'fuck me,' is as smooth and supple as the thin black leather of his pants, Otabek's voice is the thick, worn-in hide of a leather motorcycle jacket, cracked in places, familiar both for what it sounds like and for what it can do. "But what if I could get you crazed enough that you take those off yourself?"

Yuri shivers. "I am not in the mood for edging tonight," he warns, and Otabek nods, hearing the serious boundary within the banter. He loves this, loves the perfect fit of them together. Loves that these days their negotiations are seamless, woven into their foreplay and just as perfectly at home sandwiched between rough bites or slow soft kisses.

"Clearly you're not in for restraint either, or you wouldn't have picked easy-access pants," he guesses.

"Well, I think the point with these is you could still strip me open even after you tied me up. If we were doing that." Yuri's thigh slides up the outside of Otabek's thigh and hip, calf curling tight around his waist. Yuri's heel grazes Otabek's spine, and the sudden roughness of his cotton sock against Otabek's skin is a distraction.

"We're not doing that," Otabek answers, short fingernails scraping, too light even for real scratches, down Yuri's flanks. "Because it takes too long, and I have to be inside you sooner than that."

Yuri's other leg rises, and he rocks back, ass on the edge of the table. The zipper scrapes the glass, an unpleasant sound that reminds them both there's better places they could choose for a fuck. Yuri glances at the table, then at Otabek's hips and thighs, pressed up against its edge, which drove him to spread his legs in the first place. Between the restriction of the leather and the hard line of pressure the zipper is driving into his cock, he's hovering in a haze of want that's just this side of painful, just shy of good enough to get off, and squarely in the territory of mind-wipingly intense. It's all tangled together, making him harder as he squirms, caught in-between the sensations - and between Otabek and the table. Still, he rallies his focus, watching a similar struggle happening in the way Otabek's skin flutters, hyper-sensitive, as Yuri's hot leather-wrapped inner thigh presses the crest of his hipbone through his pants. It's still anyone's game, he's sure.

"We're making demands now, huh? Impatient."

Otabek leans in, biting the shell of Yuri's ear, and Yuri bares his throat, barely with conscious thought, in response. Otabek kisses it, tender in contrast to the intense grind and pressure going on everywhere else. "Oh, it's my fault for getting distracted by...your distraction? But you'd be so frustrated if it wasn't properly appreciated."

"Appreciate it  _ off  _ of me already," Yuri laughs with a growl, locking both legs high around Otabek's waist. Hands back on Otabek's shoulders, he grips and flexes, and his zipper scrapes the button and fly of Otabek's slacks. His smirk could melt ice. "C'mon. Wanna make a bet whether I'm wearing anything underneath?"

One way or another, they manage to let go of each other - and hang on to each other - enough to get down the hall, from living room to bedroom. Yuri bounces as he hits the mattress ass-first, and before he's even still, Otabek's prowling onto the mattress on hands and knees, pushing Yuri's thighs apart as he goes. The silver zipper gleams, less brightly in the shadows of the bedroom than it did in the living room, but Otabek strokes his flat palm up it all the same. He starts as far back between Yuri's legs as he can reach while he's on his back and drags, forward and up. The teeth bite at the pads of his fingers and the fabric moves under his touch as he presses firmly on Yuri's balls. Yuri seizes like he's been zapped, head rolling back and chest pushing up as his back bows. He sags back down to the mattress with a raw, yearning gasp, and picks up his head to glare down at Otabek.

"Fuck," he says, with emphasis. Otabek knows his gaze is liquid and fully black, and he bares his teeth just a little in a hungry smile.

"You're going to dress like this, then I'm going to show you everything it makes me want to do to you."

Yuri's thighs twitch, tendons clenching, but Otabek holds them down and keeps him spread. Instead he arches again, squirming, and his cock twitches under the leather. He lets his head fall back heavily, raking one hand through his hair, and his breath is shaky as the density of Otabek's focused intention settles into the air around them both.

"Fuck. You said no edging. Please."

"I've got you, Yura," Otabek purrs, settling into a comfortable crouch between Yuri's thighs. He rubs his hands up and down Yuri's thighs briskly, warming them, and the leather, and sending tingles all across Yuri's skin. Then, moving his hands center, he strokes down the inside slopes of Yuri's thighs, again avoiding his groin (and smiling at the frustrated huff that earns him). At Yuri's knees he pets upward again, up the backs of his thighs where his quadriceps quiver, wanting a massage that's impossible while the tight leather pants are still in the way. Otabek repeats this cycle a few times, until Yuri's sighing softly with each stroke, and one of his hands is fluttering on his own belly, fingers restlessly twitching.

"Beshka, _please,_ " he breathes, and Otabek hums softly, agreeing.

One more time he strokes his palms up the backs of Yuri's thighs, but this time he keeps going once he reaches his ass, cupping his palms around the tight curves of it, and gripping tight. He squeezes, and Yuri arches up, belly and groin lifted hungrily, toes digging into the covers for leverage. He looks down at Otabek, and holds his gaze as Otabek moves his hands - one to the small of Yuri's back, one to the center top edge of his pants, to the big pull loop on the zipper. They just rest in each other's gazes for a moment, connecting, and when Otabek begins to pull, the sharp _ zzt zzt _ sound of the zipper teeth parting is the loudest thing in the room.

As the zipper begins to come down, the leather peels open with it; it's stretched tight, so as Otabek draws the slider down, the leather parts on its own, pulling out to the sides. Some of it sticks, sweat and bare skin combined, and Otabek slips his free hand flat between the pants and Yuri's ass, gently loosing the leather from his skin.

Otabek's having a hard time picking a focus. There’s the actual tactile sensation of the zipper coming down, knowing there's no stopper, that this pull is just going to keep going all the way around til it splits the leather clean in half. It's fascinating in a way that's hard to quantify. Compelling, too, is the warm skin being bared, and Otabek spreads one palm across half of Yuri's ass and squeezes, cock throbbing. And then there's Yuri's eyes, his gaze. He's watching Otabek unwrap him with a feline intensity, completely engrossed in Otabek's reactions. 

Otabek remembers again that Yuri found these pants, bought them, and brought them home just for them to share, thinking of  _ Otabek's  _ reaction, Otabek's interests and pleasure, the whole time.

"Yura, fuck, you're so good," he murmurs, as the zipper clears the under-curve of Yuri's ass, and the rearmost point of a triangle of red lace and string comes into view.

"Not commando after all," he muses, pulling the zipper slowly, making sure to hold it away from Yuri's skin to keep from catching skin, or his lace panties.  
  
Yuri chuckles.  "No, I kinda want my dick still attached after this, and I'm not really into road rash, either."

"These teeth would be brutal," Otabek muses idly, then, "Oh," as he discovers that there's a thin flat flap of leather inside, under the teeth. It runs from the seat of the pants all the way up to the front waistband, keeping all the most delicate anatomy separated from the zipper itself. As he continues unzipping, Otabek glances up and is pleased to see a flush pinking Yuri's cheeks and ears.

"The view down here is great," he comments, shifting til he's crouched comfortably lower, and lets go of the zipper pull.

"What the--" Yuri starts, as Otabek grabs both of Yuri's thighs and pushes them up, folding him in half, but Otabek's got the string of his panties pushed aside, and his mouth on Yuri's hole, before he manages to say anything else, and the rest is lost in a groan.

With his pants half-unzipped, cock still covered, Yuri's ass is framed in a way that few other garments could accomplish, and the contrast between stark black leather and the pale ivory of his skin makes him look even more like some sort of inhuman porcelain sculpture. Otabek sets about ruining that impression as thoroughly as he can, eating Yuri out until he's howling and cussing, but never trying to squirm out from under Otabek's grip on his thighs. Yuri hooks his elbow around one knee at one point, and pulls his leg up further, splitting himself open, and Otabek purrs his appreciation. Talk about easy access.

By the time Yuri is flushed all over, breathing hard and writhing on the mattress, grinding down onto Otabek's tongue for  _ "more, more, Beka, fuck, give me more!" _ Otabek himself is in almost as dire a state. He's been focusing on Yuri, trying to keep from thinking about his own cock, because he's been achingly hard since he first saw the zipper, and Yuri's hole is soft and hungry, and Yuri himself is  _ Yuri,  _ and the idea that Otabek's meant to hold off much longer is a cruel joke.

"Soon, Yura," Otabek breathes, getting his breath back, as he comes up for air. He rests his cheek against Yuri's thigh briefly, looking up the bed, and Yuri looks down to him with dizzy hunger. He reaches out, hand patting around until he successfully connects with Otabek's, and he laces their fingers together, his grip iron-tight.

"Love you, Beshka," he breathes, licking dry lips. " _Love_ you. Now fucking fuck me, I'm begging you."

"Yes," Otabek says, nodding stupidly at the bathroom while Russian escapes him and his cock fills, somehow, even harder. "I'm going to-- Just a sec."

The next few minutes, in which Otabek washes up in the ensuite as thoroughly as he can manage, given his acute distraction, and strips off his pants and briefs, are filled with a soft litany of noise from the bed.

"Making me wait," Yuri sighs, words sharp but his tone toothlessly fond and needy, "What a shitty boyfriend I have. Leaving me all alone over here. Maybe I'll just jerk myself off."

"Don't even," Otabek rumbles, returning to the bedroom naked, where he discovers that along with his whining, Yuri's already gotten the lube open and has two fingers pushed deep into his ass.

" _ Now _ who's impatient," he asks, crawling onto the bed and over Yuri. Yuri hooks one knee over Otabek's shoulder, and Otabek squeezes his leather-wrapped calf as he presses that leg down, stretching Yuri into a split as he leans in for a deep kiss. With his other hand Otabek cups Yuri's bulge, still covered with zipper and shiny pull-tab ring and leather and all, and squeezes. Yuri whines into Otabek's mouth and Otabek smiles, nipping at his lip.

"God, you're gorgeous," he murmurs, sitting back on his heels to watch Yuri's hand working.

"Get in here, don't make me do all the work," Yuri scolds, and Otabek does, with urgency.

With his fingers inside Yuri, pushing and stretching and curling just right to make him gasp and growl in pleasure, Otabek's patience is fraying faster than ever.

"Let's get you unwrapped the rest of the way," he murmurs, again cupping Yuri's crotch with a heavy palm. This time, though, he hooks his thumb into the pull ring, and as his palm skates up Yuri's body, cock and hipline and belly, the zipper creaks open along with it. Yuri uses his free hand to help, holding the edge of the leather away from his skin all the way up to the edge, and then the two halves split entirely, so abruptly that they're almost snapping as they fall away. Otabek looks down between their bodies, seeing Yuri's cockhead, almost as red as the lace panties that are holding it pinned to his belly, poking out above the scalloped top edge. Otabek drives his fingers deep inside Yuri’s ass, bending his wrist, and cups Yuri's sex with his palm, rubbing at his balls with the heel of his hand. Yuri keens, and one hand snaps out to grab Otabek by the shoulder and yank him down for a hungry kiss that leaves Otabek dizzy.

"Fuck, Beshka. Stop fucking around and  fuck  me already."

"Mmm." Otabek splays his fingers, testing Yuri's stretch, and they both groan, one sharp and one low and hungry, at the resulting sensation. "Can I flip you?"

"You can stuff me and mount me on the fucking _wall_ if you'll just _fuck me,_ " Yuri cusses, and Otabek laughs.

"What?"

"Like a- like a hunting thing - oh, shut up." Yuri smacks Otabek's shoulder, flushing darker red across his cheeks. Otabek lets Yuri's leg down, pulling his fingers free, and swipes them dry on a washcloth before grabbing Yuri by both hips. Lube probably isn't great for leather, and he doesn't want to ruin these pants. Yuri will definitely be wearing them again.

With strength and ease, Otabek flips Yuri over by his hips, and as he bounces flat on his belly, Yuri grinds down against the mattress, getting friction for his cock however he can. Otabek settles in between Yuri's legs and helps him up to his hands and knees, kneading the pale curve of his ass. Below, Yuri's legs from the upper thigh down are still wrapped in leather, and it's almost like a weird set of really tall boots, or maybe stockings. Whatever it is, it frames him, _presents_ him for consumption, and Otabek's focus narrows to the peach of Yuri's ass, the slim hard tuck of his waist, the sharp jutting wings of his shoulderblades as he settles his weight onto his hands, head hanging down, hair swept forward over his face.

"Fuck, you look so good, baby," Otabek growls, and Yuri shivers, shoulders to toes, to hear that particular tone from him.

"Yeah?" Yuri lifts his head, though it's heavy on his neck, and looks back over his shoulder with a sharp, adoring gaze for Otabek. "What do you wanna do about it?"

Otabek just smiles.

The first slide in is tight, a little too dry. Yuri scrabbles for the lube, Otabek swipes more around Yuri's rim, and when he pushes in again, it's a perfect fit. He bottoms out with a grunt, digging his teeth into the meat of Yuri's shoulder. Yuri's body bows beneath his, back pressed up against Otabek's belly, and they shudder together, just resting like that, fully sheathed.

When Yuri's muscles begin to flutter so restlessly that he whines softly, high in his throat, Otabek finally moves. Kissing Yuri's shoulder, he squares his stance and rears back, kneeling upright, with his hands on Yuri's hips. Yuri drops his head and shoulders, knotting his hands in the pillow, straightening out his spine with his ass in the air. It's an extremely evocative position, and Otabek feels, intensely, every little internal flex and clench in Yuri's movement.

"I recall promising to fuck you until you can't stand," Otabek muses, stroking slowly in and out, testing his stance. He scoots his knees further apart, tries again. That feels steadier, and he flexes his grip on Yuri's hips, gripping him across the thickest meat of his ass. "How're you feeling about that idea?"

"I recall telling you I want you to rail me," Yuri pants, rolling his hips back to meet Otabek's smooth thrusts. "Oh, fuck, Beshka, s'good. Give it to me."

"All yours," Otabek sighs, popping his lip between his teeth as he watches his cock stroke in and out of Yuri's hole. "Fuck. Fuck."

It gets harder to stay steady, harder to keep his strokes deep and smooth. As the crazed need builds, Otabek starts punching in with quick, short thrusts, bending forward over Yuri's perked ass as he ruts into him, peppering his back and nape with messy kisses.

"Fuck you up," Otabek murmurs, voice like leather, grip like iron on Yuri's ass. He barely hears the words he's saying, focused on the way the heat between them is building, the bitten-off moans from Yuri beneath him, goading him on. "Gonna fuck you so good, baby."

"This your best?" Yuri challenges him, between short breaths. Otabek feels a flare of defensiveness in his chest, baited despite knowing the game Yuri's playing, and he punches forward, knocking that scant air from his lungs.

"Just the warm up lap," he jokes. "You want it, really?"

"Take the goddamn safety off," Yuri replies, scrabbling one hand free of the pillow and sheets and reaching back behind himself, finding and gripping Otabek's bare thigh. He squeezes, swallows. "I mean it."

Otabek trusts him.

From there, it goes quickly. Otabek bends forward low over Yuri, pounding him deep, moving too hard and rough to have any breath left for speech. Yuri's braced himself, trying to hold steady and take everything Otabek's giving him, but the crashing flares of pleasure he feels every time Otabek's aim is fully true are chipping away at his strength, making his thighs quake and, eventually, give in. Otabek catches him, one arm around his middle, and as Yuri's legs go out from under him, Otabek holds him close, back to chest, thrusting with fast and short strokes. Yuri, giving up on supporting himself, reaches blindly back, and when he gets his hand around the nape of Otabek's neck he grips tight, holding on. He keens, and the sound breaks into a chain of short, guttural gasps as Otabek knocks the air out of him.

Otabek feels Yuri clenching down around his cock, gripping tight with some of the only muscles left under his control, as pleasure short-circuits the rest of them. The pressure makes his head swim. He kisses the nape of Yuri's nape, feeling his own edge coming close, and tucks his face tight into the crook between neck and shoulder, breathing deeply: sweat, sex, Yuri. Yuri’s shoulders are mashed into the bed, and Otabek’s braced himself between them, brow pressed down, neck and shoulders held taut and hard. It won’t last, and if he was more consciously aware of the strain, he’d realize the way his core muscles are aching, the pull in his shoulders that’s going to take two days of stretching to fully soothe away.

But he’s kneeling tall on the mattress, and Otabek’s hands on Yuri’s hips are the only thing holding Yuri off the bed at all, as Otabek holds him suspended in place, pulling him back to meet each forward punch of his hips with desperate force. Yuri hangs limp in Otabek’s hands, given entirely over to Otabek’s control, free to do nothing but  _ feel  _ as Otabek fucks him deep. He makes the most  _ beautiful _ noises like this, Otabek thinks wildly, baring his teeth to scrape at Yuri’s skin, the valley between his shoulder blades where sweat runs down the jagged peaks of his spine. Otabek licks it up, chasing breath and orgasm together, and Yuri’s fingers on his nape scrape harder, enough that his nails might just have broken the skin a little, when Otabek finally shakes apart, finding Yuri’s prostate one last time and  _ staying _ there as he trembles and starts to come.

“Beshka, yes, fuck,” Yuri babbles, gathering one watery arm under himself, just to get his face out of the mattress far enough to speak. His grip on Otabek’s nape goes heavy and wide, gripping with ownership rather than demand, and his voice keeps going, washing over Otabek as he breaks apart into his component parts.    
  
“No one as good as you,” Yuri’s murmuring, when Otabek next registers speech, drifting back to shore. The room’s air washes across his skin like a cold ocean breeze, and it tastes like salt as sweat runs down past the corner of Otabek’s mouth. “No one’s so good to me, fuck, what did I do to find you?”   
  
“Eyes,” Otabek manages, voice dry and husking, and Yuri shudders beneath him with a combination of recognition and exhaustion.   
  
“Oh hey, hey baby, there you are,” Yuri murmurs, and his hand on Otabek’s nape moves down to the mattress, where he braces himself on that elbow. Slowly, his right shoulder dips down and his left lifts up. Otabek takes the hint, sliding off to one side, and hits the mattress like a felled tree. Yuri crumples down beside him, turning over and rolling his way into Otabek’s arms til they’re facing each other with no more space between. “Hey, babe.”   
  
“Mnnh.” With effort, Otabek squints one eye open, and it’s worth it, because Yuri’s bright, green-eyed smile is no less brilliant even when exhausted and fucked-through, looking up at Otabek like he’s the one who harnessed the sun. “Hey.”   
  
“Love you,” Yuri coos. His kisses are sleepy, and Otabek answers them as best as he can, but consciousness is quickly gathering up its keys and wallet, headed out the door, and the next couple minutes exist only in flashes. Otabek squints, trying to stay focused, but he knows he’s already dozing in and out. One moment, Yuri’s legs are still half leather-clad, sticking against the sweat on Otabek’s thighs. In the next, Yuri’s nothing but soft, supple bare skin as he slides back into Otabek’s arms, sighing soft reassuring noises, and they scoot against each other until they’re as close as physically possible, and nobody’s arms or legs are getting circulation cut off. 

The last thing Otabek’s aware of is Yuri pulling a blanket over them both, and of a vague metallic scratching sensation, laying on the mattress beside them, somewhere around the level of his shins.

  
*  
  


**Author's Note:**

> ridden hard and put away wet, indeed
> 
> lemme know what you think in the comments - i love writing this little snarly kitten and would love to have reasons to write more.
> 
> thank you for reading.


End file.
